Greater Things
by Lanie M
Summary: Miyagi knows the truth behind his relationship with Ayako.


Disclaimer: SD and relevant characters belong to Inoue Takehiko.

Warnings: It's been a long time since I reviewed the SD canon, so I apologize if the characterization is a bit off. Additionally, the fic is, as usual, plotless.

Notes: This is dedicated to Tea, who asked for a RyoAya fic about unrequited love. Hopefully this is everything you wanted, with two cherries on top, my dear.

This is actually the first non-yaoi SD fic I've ever done, which makes me somewhat proud. The disintegration of my vocabulary and strange development of my writing style, however, is another story. Hope you enjoy the fic, though. As always, constructive criticism and feedback would be greatly appreciated.

* * *

**GREATER THINGS**

He cuts his finger during practice, and she brings him to the sidelines in hasty concern. Her hand is warm and soft when she touches him, cooler than the ointment which tingles on his skin before the bandage is sealed, fixed like his gaze as he watches her, spellbound. He memorizes every word which is released from her being into the world beyond.

He walks her home every evening after practice. They stop before the doorway of her house, sides facing the street, lit by lines of lonely neon lamps. He looks into the distance, looks at her, then looks down at the ground.

"Aya-chan," he breathes, and his foreboding senses the imminent and inevitable answer that will follow. "I was wondering whether… you know… if you ever decide to… well…"

He sighs, feels himself beginning to sweat.

"Maybe one day we could go out and… well… as a couple…"

She smiles, a smile of such helpless sorrow and such infinite kindness. He can remember every curve of her face, every trace of the lashes adorning her eyes, every glimmer in the shadows of her features, when she smiles so. If he had the hands of an artist, he would sketch every detail of every sparkle of grace which made up Ayako. But he does not, he is not an artist, he is only Miyagi Ryota.

"Ryota," she replies, holding him with her eyes like a mother to a child. "I can't."

He looks and looks at her. He waits for her, patiently, obediently, eternally.

She opens her mouth, stops before speaking, looks away. She speaks again.

"We're not meant to be together." she says.

He knows that she means, I'm not meant to be with you. He knows that people like him are not meant for people like her.

She gently touches the side of his face, an unspoken apology which is not hers to give. He is a spark of talent with a shady past, a case of chaos in need of order in the quest for collective glory. He is a dog on a leash, held by her side. She respects him, helps him, feels for him, but she cannot love him. She cannot love someone like him.

He does not speak. He wants to move forward and hold her, kiss her, caress the ocean waves of her hair. But he is himself, and no, they are not meant to be. He is not meant for greater things.

He wonders whether it is sympathy in her eyes. He cannot bear it.

She turns, inserts a key into the door behind her, turns back to face him. He thinks that he has never seen anything so beautiful, and that he will never see anything so beautiful again in his life.

"Thank you." she says simply, as she always does. "Goodnight, Ryota."

He nods, still at a loss. She smiles once again, closes the door, and is gone.

He suspects that she does not know that he loves her. She does not know that he would do anything for her, anything at all. He would give up basketball, if she so asked, though this is something he knows she will never do. He would attempt to swim across the Atlantic Ocean, though he almost drowned and died when he was three. He would fight the entire league of Shohoku gangsters, study to achieve straight A-stars. She does not know that he is not frivolous and inconstant in his affections for her. She does not know how he has loved her, painfully, faithfully, throughout the years. He wonders whether she would think instead that he was meant for her, that such a person as him and her were meant to be together, if she knew all this.

He sits on a battered swing in a nearby park, hunched slightly forward with his head down and eyes closed. There is a bustle, a creak, a movement beside him.

"Yo." greets Mitsui. He grunts back.

Mitsui smirks. He is nudged teasingly.

"Girlfriend troubles?"

Miyagi is too tired to answer.

Mitsui starts to rock slowly, back and forth.

"You should give up, man." he begins. His tone is softer, jest concealing genuine and serious assistance. "It's not good for you, you know?"

He does know. He says nothing. He feels momentarily guilty that he cannot better acknowledge Mitsui's obvious attempts at consolation and camaraderie. Though they are futile, Miyagi deeply appreciates Mitsui's efforts.

"She's just a girl." Mitsui continues.

But she is not, Miyagi thinks, she is not just. She is a girl. She is The Girl. She is Ayako, with all her mind-numbing beauty and brightness and brilliance, her no-nonsense charm, her spirit and her determination and her unchanging, unfaltering integrity.

"I can't." is all he can manage.

He feels, all at once, the earth-shattering honesty of these two simple words.

He does not think Mitsui understands that he loves her. Mitsui shuffles somewhat awkwardly, scratches his head, falls into silence. Miyagi does not notice that he looks absently into the distance.

"There will be others." Mitsui says.

At first, he is surprised. He studies Mitsui's frame briefly before returning to his inner thoughts. It is no wonder, after all. Mitsui, too, knows what it is to live the burdens of one's past in the present. Mitsui, too, has experienced the segregation of an existence weighed down by the mayhem of violent, tumultuous memories, to be grouped under a label of "people like them", "people like you", "people like us". He wonders whether Mitsui understands what it is to love when one is not meant to.

Mitsui pats him on the shoulder, as if compelled to do so, as if to say, Hang in there, Always hang in there.

And Miyagi is grateful. Miyagi is grateful for Mitsui's wordless understanding and shared experience of regret for who and what one has been, who and what one is. Miyagi is grateful for this moment, the stars above him, the ground beneath him, the air which fills his lungs and being with hope and yearning and the will to go on; the dips and callouses of his fingers, his hands which have touched and participated in the glorious taste of victory and bliss and miracles with every flick of a dribble and arc of a long shot. Miyagi is grateful for Ayako and all her ineffable grace, her power to work magic and move the mountains of his mind, for the unspeakable mystery and privilege of her presence and her regard, her friendship. He is grateful for love, for the desire and stillness and captivation which has given meaning and purpose to his every step and every drive of motion. Miyagi is grateful for the life he has left behind him, for the life which lies before him.

Miyagi is, in fact, grateful for everything.

He awakes the next morning. He falls asleep in class, falls over during practice. He still loves her. There is pain, and hope, and bitterness. There is the continuous forward leap of life and time.

And Miyagi remains grateful.


End file.
